


Sentiments, Semantics, He Would Have Heard It Both Ways

by cosette141



Category: Psych (TV 2006)
Genre: Character Death, Desperaux, Friendship, Gen, shawn spencer - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-11
Updated: 2020-05-11
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:21:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24129631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cosette141/pseuds/cosette141
Summary: Shawn Spencer is dead, and someone is taking the news harder than they ever could have expected. (Shawn/Desperaux friendship) deathfic
Kudos: 41





	Sentiments, Semantics, He Would Have Heard It Both Ways

**Author's Note:**

> Hi guys!
> 
> I'm usually too much of a sap to write deathfics so I'm not really sure why this inspiration struck... But I really like Despereaux and Shawn's friendship and couldn't resist. This will most likely remain a oneshot, but who knows ;D (this is also only acknowledging the first two episodes with Despereaux, not the faking death and Interpol theory).
> 
> I also don’t often write in first person POV but it just felt right to do it here.
> 
> I'd love to hear your thoughts! :)
> 
> ~cosette141

I found out on the news.

Not that I'd tell anyone else in this British Columbian prison, but I'd smuggled a portable TV into my cell. A mate of a mate I'd made in here had hooked me up with it. It pays to be nice. And evidently, even as criminals, most of these Canadian felons were just that.

I had been just about to call it a night, sitting on my lone cot in the cold prison cell. Lights Out had been called a few minutes ago, but I liked to catch the news before I slept. Hearing about possible marks and successful other cons, like myself, made for a good night's sleep.

Besides the local news, I also had one other channel on this little TV, even though it had been much harder for that friend of my friend to get.

The Santa Barbara local news.

Any time I saw news coverage of the psychic—or not-so-psychic, as I myself knew to be—I was happy to see the young, witty detective solving his cases.

Sure; Shawn Spencer was the reason I find myself locked in this cramped, sickly-designed flat—ahem, _cell_ —but I couldn't bring myself to dislike him. He wasn't like other detectives. He didn't sit behind a desk waiting for the next criminal, sighing wearily and begrudgingly starting the process to catch them. Especially after being there to _watch_ him work as he helped—however unwillingly—to prove my innocence, it was, well, amusing.

Sure, insurance fraud wasn't the flashiest of crimes. As I've said myself: practically victimless. But it didn't _seem_ to the outside world that it was victimless. I'd made a name for myself and Shawn had more or less ruined it. And still…

I'll admit it; I really liked the kid.

Only a few weeks after my imprisonment here, I'd used these kind mates I'd met to get more information on Shawn. I'd then sent him a postcard. I knew he'd write back; he's the only detective in the world who would have done so. The letters and cards went back and forth, and I'll say it...

Those jeans I got him were quite expensive to pay off in here.

It was different for me. Having him, talking with him, working with him. Regardless of his frustration when I'd used him and his—what did he call him? His "snow-bunny"—partner, Shawn and I actually seemed to be… _friends._

I haven't had many friends. I'd spent my entire life trying to be the best. Well, _seem_ like the best. I don't think I'd ever told him, but my father was a cop, too.

Funny how opposite our lives, Shawn and mine, ended up, considering.

But we're both frauds. Both trying to look good, and using lies to do it. Maybe that's why we worked together so well.

I turned, the wind whipping through my hair. It was much windier on top of a rooftop, but I've grown quite accustomed to the conditions. I stared down at the scene a few dozen feet below me. Something uncomfortable stirred in my chest. I hadn't let it do that since I'd found out.

_"—_ _a whopping five degree drop expected tonight, Heather," said the local Santa Barbara weatherman, gesturing to a poster of air currents and other symbols. "The low will be around sixty-two. Might have to break out those winter jackets, right?" He laughed at his own joke and I shook my head, making my cot creak beneath me. I looked to the window in my cell, at the below-thirty degree weather. Californians are funny sometimes. I cocked my head at the window, thinking maybe I should send Shawn and his partner some ski tickets. It might be nice to have another visit, considering that I haven't seen them in ages._

_"—_ _thank you, Tim," said the anchor, "Heather". "In other news, quite a tragic story for the Santa Barbara Police Department. Local psychic-detective of 'Psych', Shawn Spencer, was killed during his last investigation. Recent information tells us—"_

_I dropped the TV. It clattered to the stone floor. I think it broke. Shouting came from the hallway—inmates and guards, I think. But I couldn't hear any of it._

_But even through the cracked screen, I could see Shawn's face behind the spider-webbed glass._

I didn't sleep at all that night.

I sighed again, staring down at the gathering below. I knew what it was; it was the reason I risked escaping prison again. I don't even want to go through how bloody close I had been to getting caught there, too. But this wasn't something I could fail.

I wanted to attend Shawn's funeral.

I took out my gravel-hook-pistol, and stared at it for a second.

_"_ _Have you ever seen a Batman movie?"_

I remembered the shocked looks on Shawn and his partner's face. It was amusing.

I leveled the weapon out and shot it toward a tall tree, still quite far away from the funeral ceremony. It wrapped neatly around a trunk and I tugged it to check its security. With a single breath, I jumped, allowing myself to swing through the air and land on one of the lower trunks. It took me a moment to save my balance.

I eventually got down from the tree and peered around it. I'm not that thick—I _did_ disguise myself, of course. A wig and mustache that actually look quite dashing. But any enthusiasm I might have had for them didn't come. I felt… numb. As much as I try to avoid creating relationships and avoiding attachments… I couldn't help feeling that uncomfortable twist in my gut as I looked on at the row of chairs and the lone, black coffin standing before them.

_"…_ _which makes what would be an exciting life, merely pedestrian…"_

I'd said it when I first met Shawn. But I had never felt like more of a pedestrian than I did today. I wasn't a con artist, not a felon, not a thief. Not now. Right now…

I was just a man who's lost his only true friend in this world.


End file.
